"Did I ever tell you I used to row, Sergeant?" St. Just and Sergeant Fear were strolling through the grounds that led to the boathouse. "In my college days?"
He hadn't, but Sergeant Fear wasn't surprised. St. Just was built for the sport, with his long muscular legs, solid as tree trunks. They would act as pistons propelling the boat, with his long arms getting the maximum reach out of the oars.
"You've the build for it, Sir."
"Thank you, Sergeant, that's very flattering, but that's really not why I brought the subject up. This college is uniquely set up for rowing, with the boathouse being right here. Most colleges have to convene elsewhere. Makes it handy."
"For what?"
St. Just turned his head to look at Fear.
"I'm not sure yet."
They reached the scene of the crime. A fresh collection of constables stood guarding the area as a modified search team continued to see by daylight what, if anything, had been missed the night before. A woman uniformed in a sleeveless yellow Day-Glo jerkin stood to one side, quietly observing. St. Just remembered an exchange he'd once overheard between a similarly clad young woman and an inquiring member of the public:
"You're a copper, right?"
"No, the jacket was on sale. It's a difficult color to wear for some people, irradiated yellow. Of course, I'm a ruddy copper. What do you want?"
Lexy's body had long since been removed, along with the SOCO tent and other paraphernalia required to investigate the doing away of one human being by another.
St. Just conferred with the others on his team, who reported no new findings.
"They keep these college grounds as clean as the Queen's stables, Sir," said Constable Brummond. "If there was anything left behind by your killer, it would stick out like a tart in church. We've practically found nothing worth bagging. No helpful cigarette butts with traces of DNA on the filters. All the villains seem to have packed it in, anyway. Bad for their health."
Brummond was a twenty-year man, with all the grace and instincts of an alley cat on the prowl. More than once, he'd been put on gardening leave for one infraction or another, but he always came back. He'd never risen beyond the rank of Constable, but whether from inclination or temperament, St. Just never asked. He just requisitioned him whenever he could. Brummond had the sharpest pair of eyes in the force. Sergeant Fear, on the other hand, had more restful qualities. St. Just swore having Fear with him helped him think.
"There's nothing here, Sir," Brummond went on, "except a bit of gravel disturbance over there nearest the boathouse, where she was found."
They walked over to the point where their careful footsteps began making crunching noises against the small stones.
Brummond pointed some feet away. "Since this is the kind of place that practically has the gravel counted each day," he said, "the slightest trace of disorder shows. Could have been the scene of the struggle, likely it was. He left her where he'd killed her."
St. Just looked up at the building. Brummond followed the path of his gaze.
"We're out of luck there, as you know, Sir. They're using a mixture of dummy cameras and live ones. But they've got the lot trained on the river. After all, they're thinking in terms of protecting the contents of the boathouse. Some of these boats are worth many thousands of pounds-in fact, they all are. Anyone coming by water to steal would be captured. But it's an outdated CCTV system, which relies on an old time-lapse system linked to analog cameras. The intended use was never, I'll warrant, to capture a killer lurking on the grounds. It wouldn't have occurred to them. These college blokes are all living in the sixteenth century, seems to me."
"If they were, they might be better prepared to deal with violent death, as well as theft. Cambridge in the sixteenth century was not for the faint of heart."
Brummond nodded. "I see your point, Sir. Anyway, that kid-Sebastian-was apparently trusted with the keys, along with a few others. You want to have a look inside? By the way, inside we found what is probably the twin of the scull that was used to attack the victim. Forensics bagged it."
The men walked through the large doorway into the capacious lower level of the wide, two-story building. The room was stacked with racks holding different types of racing boats; rowing blades and sculls, riggers, and related equipment filled the rest of the available space. They squeezed past this equipment to reach a set of stairs in the rear that led up to a gym filled with rowing machines, weights, and other fitness equipment. At the back were showers and a changing area; to one side, a well-equipped bar and meeting room.
St. Just whistled.
"In my day we were lucky to have access to a couple of eights that hadn't had their riggers bent all to hell."
"It's an expensive sport, Sir, and increasingly popular," said Brummond. "It looks like St. Michael's is rolling in it."
That wasn't the impression St. Just had gotten from Portia. The Bursar may have pinched his pennies elsewhere, but not here, evidently.
They spent a few minutes admiring the bar room with its flat-screen television and its sumptuous chairs and sofas, then walked downstairs and out of the boathouse. A movement caught St. Just's eye; Sebastian was standing several yards away. Hovering anxiously, was St. Just's impression. When he saw St. Just looking at him, Sebastian quickly turned and walked away.
St. Just turned to the other two policemen and said, "I suppose we might have a look through all those lockers in the changing area. Organize it with the Porter or whoever would be in charge of that, would you? Better yet, I'll have a word with him now."
So St. Just and Sergeant Fear next headed towards the elaborate, fan-vaulted cage that housed the Porter. An ex-Army man like many of his kind, William Trinity readily agreed to organize the locker search, but could throw little light on the overall situation. He had today regained some of his usual unflappable manner, honed over years of dealing with hordes of anxious first-year students. But he had little information to share with the detectives. Yes, it was unusual that he would have been here the night before in addition to today, he agreed in reply to questioning, but they were down one man this week. He also replied that there had been a great fuss over nothing when the lady had reported her room broken into. She herself admitted nothing was taken.
"How long have you been working here?" St. Just asked him.
"Twenty year now."
"Was the lady known to you from her time as a student here?"
"She may have been. I've seen thousands pass through here though, Sir. Can't expect me to remember them all. In fact, I only tend to remember the troublemakers."
"It's always difficult, patrolling an environment like this, with so many nooks and crannies to it," St. Just observed. "It's what makes both Cambridge and Oxford hard to police."
"Too right."
"I imagine you've seen it all."
"I have indeed."
"Drugs and so forth?"
The Porter seemed to take this as a personal affront. He carefully adjusted his bowler before replying, patting it squarely atop his head.
"No indeed. Not at St. Michael's."
St. Just doubted very much that St. Mike's had a special dispensation in that regard when every other college was fighting a running battle against the noxious stuff, but he decided not to risk further losing the goodwill of this particular witness. Just then another constable approached to tell them someone in the college kitchen wanted a word.
"All right," said St. Just. "Tell them we'll be right there." He left his card with William Trinity with instructions on how to get in touch.
The college kitchen looked as if a factory from the time of the industrial revolution had been dropped into the center of an old monastery. The stone floor had worn smooth as glass over the centuries by the continual tread of feet going from the walk-in fireplace-big enough to roast an ox, to which use it probably had been put-to the enormous central refectory-style table. It was otherwise typical, St. Just supposed, of any kitchen attached to a large restaurant or school; the need to feed hundreds of rapacious students and their instructors several times a day necessitated a ruthless efficiency. Several young men and women were engaged in food preparation. As he watched, they all looked up from their chores simultaneously, as if harkening to the same bell.
"What is that?" St. Just heard one of them say.
His eye was caught just then by an enormous, fierce-looking tom. Evidently the mouser trade was booming. He sat in the dead center of the room, an Oberburgermeister of a cat, sleek, fat, and complacent as a robber baron, concentrating now on his post-meal wash. It was a meticulous, demanding job, every claw requiring equal, specialized attention. St. Just would not have been surprised if the cat had next begun cleaning his teeth with a silver toothpick. He wore his mantle of power lightly, but it was clear a successful mouser answered to no one.
"Tom Jones," said a sharp voice. "You know you're not allowed in here."
A short, squat woman approached, drying her hands on an apron that nearly reached the floor. The cat, looking over his shoulder, gave her a glancing once-over before resuming his ablutions.
St. Just said, "Someone wanted a word?"
"That would be me." She was nearly as wide as she was tall, and she had arms like a stevedore's, the muscles rippling as she kneaded the white cloth. St. Just reflected that Philip Marlowe might have described her as a woman built like a refrigerator and twice as cold. "I'm the chef here," she said, squinting at the men in turn, taking their measure from under thatched eyebrows. Seemingly satisfied, she extended one ropy arm to shake hands and said:
"Mary Goose-and I've heard all the jokes already, ta very much." She paused to ruffle the salt-and-pepper hair she wore in a choppy no-frills cut. "Anyway, I saw her, you see. The blonde that was done in. In the garden that night. I was there. I wasn't supposed to be, and I'd appreciate your keeping that information under your hat."
She suddenly turned and shouted, "Fuck away from that!" St. Just saw the cat, a large fish in its mouth, moving with swift feline grace towards the exit.
"Bugger it." She rolled her eyes in a display of colossal annoyance, then informed St. Just, "I'll be finding the bones all over the garden now. Bloody hell. As if I don't have enough to do. Where was I? Oh, right, in the garden."
"How did you happen to be there?" he asked.
"Stepped out for a smoke, see. The Master frowns on that. It was in the middle of the shift, see. But the meal was finished, there was nothing that needed doing right then, so I stepped out into a corner of the cloister walk. The members had all left the Hall by the gallery at that point. That's when I saw them. A blonde woman sitting on the bench in the Fellows' Garden, talking with this dark-haired man."
"Did you know either of them?"
"Never saw either of them before. I've not been at St. Mike's as long as all that."
"Could you hear what they were saying?"
She nodded emphatically. "Yes, I could. Clear as day. He said, 'We were happy together, Lexy. Cling to that memory. I do. Those were wonderful times.' Something like that-it wouldn't half have made you sick to listen to him. He was sweet-talking her, you see, but really, trying to get away from her."
This was a break, thought St. Just. Mary Goose was the only witness so far who could have overheard the conversation, the gallery used by the others being glassed in.
"And what did she say?"
"Nothing. She just gave a little shudder, like she was crying, stricken with grief, you know." Stricken with grief. It sounded like a line she'd heard on the telly. "Or maybe it was foreboding, given what happened to her next, poor lady."
"And then?"
"Then what? That was about it. I came in on the tail end. He said something like, 'Well, perhaps you'd like to be alone. I'll leave you now. See you in the SCR in a bit, right?' And he walked off. I heard him take the stairs, those stairs that are at one end of the cloister-the opposite end of the cloister to where I was standing, lucky thing. And from there I would guess he headed down the corridor to the SCR."
"She didn't follow him?"
She shook her head.
"I left myself then. She was still sitting there."
"And the time for this would be when?"
"Nine twenty. No, I tell a lie. Maybe nine twenty-five."
"I see. Thank you for coming forward. I don't see any reason why the Master has to know about the cigarette."
"Thanks, mate. You're a real gent."
"Just for my notes," said Sergeant Fear, "how long have you been the college cook?"
Mary Goose, in the process of leaving, spun around, making the starched white apron billow out from around her hips like a ship's sail.
"I'm the chef, young man, not the cook. The chef, got that? And I've been here near fifteen years."
A chastened St. Just and Fear left via a door that led to the kitchen garden, which was surrounded by dry stone walls. There was no sign of the cat nor the fish, but no doubt Tom Jones was wise enough to put a safe distance between himself and the chef. From there, the policemen walked out onto the broad green expanse of lawn leading to the river. Beyond a screen of trees they heard the repetitive thwump of a tennis ball being struck. They followed the sound: Geraldo Valentiano was hitting balls against a tennis backboard. He had apparently had the foresight to pack a white tennis outfit, or perhaps that was just part of his standard travel gear as he jetted from world hotspot to world hotspot.
He paused to watch the policemen approach.
"How long are you going to hold me here?" he demanded to know, when they were within hearing range. "I have to get up to London."
"What exactly is your business there, Sir?"
Geraldo gave a silky shrug.
"This and that. Look, it's too bad, what happened to Lexy, but that was going nowhere. She asked me here to be her escort for the weekend. I thought it would be what you call a lark-was I wrong!-so I came along. I have nothing to do with this, I tell you." His voice ended on an unattractive whine. "I'm just an innocent bystander."
St. Just looked at him a long moment.
"When you can leave, I'll be sure to let you know. In person."